


Your Leading Man

by th_esaurus



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Gross, M/M, Open Relationships, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 01:39:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11933643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: Even if this is just sex, it’s--nice. It’s a nice thing they have going on.





	Your Leading Man

The heat is barely tolerable. Timothée’s AC has been broken since last fall, when he promptly forgot about getting it fixed, and then the spring was dutifully mild, and then he spent too much time travelling to really worry about it; but Armie’s arrival in the hottest weekend in July prompts action. “Wow, fuck  _ this _ noise,” Armie says, dumping his bags and flapping his loose t-shirt against his chest to get some air. 

They troop out to the nearest hardware store and buy three steel desk fans, Armie carrying one under each lumbering arm and Timothee clutching the third. All three are installed strategically around the bedroom, and that’s where they stay, because that’s where, pretty much, Armie and Timothée stay. All weekend. Just, you know, fucking.

It’s Sunday afternoon by now, and Timothée is splayed out naked across the bed, his head not quite on the pillow and a ratty copy of  _ Catcher in the Rye _ open across his temple, second-hand pages soaking up his sweat. It was within arm’s reach, and he’s not fond of the book - he’s never had time for anyone who can’t fall in love with New York - but it’s a staple. He doesn’t like to get rid of books.

He can hear Armie in the kitchen, lazily fetching and carrying. Beer from the back of the fridge, ice from plastic trays clinking into tall glasses. His feet always sound comically flat on the hardwood floor. The mattress wheezes as he clambers on, between Timothée’s gangly legs.

Armie’s doing--something, and Timothée tries to parse the sounds blindly. He likes this game. Likes being in tune with the simple mysteries of the world around him. Armie’s weird crunchy chewing noise, his hum around something in his mouth, his laughing breath, through his nose. The weight on the bed shifting as he crawls forward, effortlessly dipping his shoulders under Timothée’s knees and lifting them, Timothée’s heels sliding easily into the valleys between the muscles of his back.

His breath, on Timothée’s soft cock, is warningly cool, and then--

_ "Fuck--"_ Timothée laughs, jolting, as Armie’s ice-chilled mouth slips around him. 

They’ve been doing this since--well, forever. Since the last lingering days before filming finished in dozy Crema, and Armie pulled Timothée aside after Michael’s wrap drinks, just the two of them left to film now, and said to him, quite urgently and without preamble: “Timmy, I think I’m in love with you a bit and I gotta know how you feel about that.”

“Like, in love with me for the film?” Timothée stammered, stalling for time. “Or--?”

“Or,” Armie said swallowing. “The other one.”

“Right,” Timothée nodded.

“Right,” Armie said too, his face falling.

“I feel pretty good about it,” Timothée managed.

“...Right,” Armie said again, and his whole big body sagged against Timothée in sheer relief. 

He had assumed, privately, to himself, that it was hyperbole on account of the movie. Tensions running high. He’d kissed Armie a  _ lot _ over the past couple weeks, and that belies a certain level of affection.

But also, they started fucking around after Armie’s admission, so--

So, this isn’t new, but  _ this _ is new: two days and counting without setting a foot out of Timothée’s stifling apartment, picking through whatever’s in the fridge and ordering a third round of take-out, naked, sweating, condensation dribbling down the top of the bedroom window; laughter and sex.

Armie has a scab just on the inside of his nose where Timothée caught him with an elbow, rough-and-tumbling, and he’d licked the blood out of his philtrum and grinned, adoring it. Timothée’s hair gets grease-slicked by the end of a good day, so by now he’s leaving oily marks on the pillow-cases, letting Armie hand-sculpt his long locks with sheer grime. There’s a jizz-stained flannel in the bathroom sink that Armie keeps rinsing and wringing out and using to wipe down Timothée’s stomach of anything he hasn’t willfully consumed. Timothée feels disgusting in a way that truly only oversexed men can, and he’s in no mood to stop. 

Armie’s mouth warms up quick enough, and he blows Timothée in earnest. It’s too hot, and Timothée’s sweat is dribbling down the backs of his thighs, over Armie’s hands where they’re braced against him. “God,” Timothée moans, flinging the book off his forehead. He can feel the paper sticking to him like a limpet before it goes. “We should’ve done this at yours.”

Armie snorts, pulls off slick and lip-smacking. “I told you that right at the start, you little ass. I said, Timmy, is your AC still fucked because you know there’s gonna be a heatwave and you said, naw, it’s all good, it won’t be that bad, we’ll open the windows.” He lays a sweet, patronising kiss on the head of Timothée’s erection. “So now we’re up here on the seventh floor - heat rises, by the way, as I’m sure you knew - with dollar store fans and your neighbours getting a stereo rendition of what you sound like when you get fucked.”

_ "God," _ Timothée whines again, embarrassed.

Armie deep-throats him. Timothée brackets his knees almost coyly around Armie’s head as he goes for it, both hands tangled in Armie’s already-messy hair. Armie seems to suck the orgasm right out of him, pulling back just enough to catch it all in his mouth; then climbs up Timothée’s chest and holds him down by the wrists and spits come between his open lips. It’s, honestly, it’s vile. They make out, salty and viscerally thick, until it’s too gross and Timothée needs to gargle a gallon of cold water. 

He digs the heels of his hands into Armie’s collarbone, playful but meaning to hurt; it’s how Armie likes everything. “I need to brush my teeth,” he complains, when Armie wrestles him into the mattress. “God--get off me--you’re heavy--fuck--” He’s laughing now, helpless with it, as Armie trips his fingers along Timothée’s sensitive waist. They end up wriggling on the bed for minutes more, Armie trying to lick stripes of his still come-white tongue on Timothée’s cheeks and jaw. 

“Fuck,” he laughs, “You need a shave. It’s like licking a cat.”

“Your fault,” Timothée huffs.

They calm for a moment. Timothée reaches up between them and runs his fingertip around the curve of Armie’s ear. He shivers, his muscles big enough that Timothée can see them quiver, just around the knot of his broad shoulders.

Even if this is just sex, it’s--nice. It’s a nice thing they have going on.

“I really do need to brush my teeth,” he says quietly.

“Okay,” Armie nods, and makes no move to get off, but lets himself be rolled aside limply. He traipses into the bathroom a moment or two after Timothée, waits for him to spit his foamy mouth clean, and then swipes his very same toothbrush. Fresh toothpaste. Scrubs nonchalantly.

His hips are so close to Timothée’s ass that they’re nudging him into the sink.

They could fuck again, right here. There are already condoms in the bathroom. There are condoms scattered everywhere, convenient. Jeez. They really had planned to fuck all damn weekend.

In truth they’d come close to it before. Not exactly as wanton as this, but--out in California. Timothée visiting, in pre-production, and he’d been told to bulk out a little, shed the weight over the course of a tetchy shoot, so he offered to be Elizabeth’s cupcake tester for a couple of days. He subsisted almost entirely on sugar and carbs: milkshakes, pasta, cookies and cream. Elizabeth adored his European bluntness when she had under-salted a cake, and made sarcastic little notes in her recipe book. 

They both knew he was there for--secondary reasons.

Armie came home from meetings with his agent the first evening and dumped his wallet and keys on the kitchen counter, kissed Elizabeth openly on the lips, and then pressed his warm mouth to Timothée’s neck, even as his hand was still on his wife’s waist.

Timothée stayed four days, and though they didn’t fuck brazenly, they certainly fucked. Cleanly and discreetly, in the second guest room, the one lesser used. 

“You’ll burn off all those calories I’m so helpfully forcing down you,” Elizabeth tutted.

Timothée had flushed, embarrassed, but Armie laughed deep in his chest, quite openly. “Try harder, babe,” he said, and he could have been speaking to either of them.

He watches Armie clean his teeth and rake his hand through his rank hair. Even like this, filthy and fucked, he seems as wholesome and hearty as ever. Like he could’ve so easily just come in from a long, summertime jog, and just needs a towel and a freshen up. There’s something about his make up that Timothée adores: that he is, at a glance, all-American, with his tan and his straight teeth and his blonde roots, handsome in a way that shouldn’t stand out on the west coast. But there’s ancestry in his bones. A deep-settled, long-travelled history, a hint of the Bolshevik Jewish scion he might have been that fights to be seen over the Stateside sheen.

“You’re staring,” Armie says to him, smiling at him in the bathroom mirror.

“What are you gonna do about it?” Timothée says, because emotion makes him defensive sometimes. He’s smiling too, unable to help it.

Armie’s grin softens, cryptically. Carefully, he tilts Timothée’s head to the side with the weight of his arm, stretching out the bare expanse of his neck and kissing it, inch by inch. Freckle by freckle. It’s a sight, in the crummy mirror. The way Armie’s bottom lip clings to Timothée’s sticky skin until the last moment, every time. The warmth of his breath the split-second before each kiss, like the sight of a firework before the bang. 

They’ve made love all weekend and Timothée still wants it again.

“We look like shit,” he says to their conjoined reflection.

“Speak for yourself,” Armie mumbles against his neck.

“We should shower.”

“Should we though?”

“Yes,” Timothée says, joyfully adamant. We could, Armie argues, just get dirtier and grosser until we form one big conglomerate mass of sweat and grime and come and-- “Stop it,” Timothée says, and bats him away, and leans into the bathtub to turn the shower on.

Armie is already ripping open a loose condom packet with his teeth. 

Timothée perches on the edge of the bathtub to wait for it to run lukewarm - anything more would be miserable - and Armie gets on his knees, and kisses from his ankle to his thigh, blows him only until he’s hard, and pleasantly rolls the condom onto his dick.

“I’m too hot to fuck you,” Timothée complains.

“I’ll ride you,” Armie hums, happy, and so he does. Both of them on the floor of the tub, where the shower runs widest and weakest, Armie’s tree-trunk thighs barely squeezing in either side of Timothée’s hips. 

They run the hot water right through, and clean up properly under a feeble icy patter, leaning on one another and using each other’s hands for washcloths. 

Gentle laughter. Gentler kisses.

They manage to throw on some clothes and bail from the apartment before its sauna-heat engulfs them once more. It’s late afternoon, and Central Park is full of thirty-somethings making the most of their last hours of weekend freedom before the existential dread of a coming Monday sets in. They buy hot dogs and Armie wheedles his way into getting three frankfurters in one bun, but tips more than three dogs would cost anyway.

A youngish girl coyly asks for Armie’s autograph, apologises to Timothée for interrupting, and has no recognition in her eyes when she glances at him. Armie is gracious to a tee. Holds her shoulder for a selfie. 

“Mr Hammer, Mr Hammer,” Timothée says after, only lightly mocking. “Can I get your picture, Mr Hammer?”

“You jerk,” Armie grins, nudging their shoulders together. “It’ll be you soon enough.”

“Nah.”

“Of course,” Armie says, and looks at him quizzically. Fond.

They wander down to the Wollman rink, planted over in the summer months and overrun with toddlers and au pairs. “You should bring Harper here in the winter,” Timothée says. It would be cute. Kitted out in her little pearly rich-kid skates.

“Ford too, when he’s old enough,” Armie agrees blithely. There’s a longevity implied in his words that makes Timothée’s stomach wriggle. He’s thought often, and quashed just as much, the idea that he could be Armie’s piece on the side for a considerable amount of time. For as long as Elizabeth doesn’t mind, frankly.

“What will you tell them?” Timothée asks suddenly, and then wishes he’d said nothing. They had a fun weekend, and it doesn’t need dissecting. 

“What?”

“I mean--” He leans into Armie’s shoulder:  _ about us _ .

Armie’s face is blank for longer than a split second. Then he frowns, genuinely clueless. “That you’re my boyfriend.”

Timothée stalls. “--What?”

“What else am I gonna tell them?”

Armie sounds so fucking  _ light _ about it.

“Jeez,” Timothée huffs. It feels like such an immature admission-- _ boyfriend _ . Timothée’s youthful enough to get away with words like that, but Armie’s in his thirties now and hasn’t been on the market for a decade. He should know better. 

Timothée shoves his hands deep into his pockets, as though some kind of appropriate sentence is hiding down among the lint that he can fetch out, dust off, make presentable. He settles for staring at his shoes in the lately-trimmed grass.

“Timmy,” Armie says, his voice softer. “You know I told you I was in love with you like, day one, right?”

“Right.”

“That wasn’t a cheap ploy to get into your pants or whatever.”

Timothée shrugs, not disagreeing but unsure all the same. They fucked all weekend, like teenagers, like rabbits in mating season; filled up, tied off condoms thrown haphazardly in the trash. They both looked like garbage. Armie’s nose still darkly scabbed on the inside of his left nostril. Timothée’s eyes bloodshot and cavernous from lack of sleep, because they were just alternating naps and sex. They both looked like garbage, yeah, but Armie had still said, around 3am on the Saturday night:  _ you’re gorgeous, Timmy, Christ, I can’t get enough of you. Never get bored of me, I’m begging you. _

And Timothée had laughed, incredulous, at the time, but--

But there was something in it, maybe. Something believable, that he had not let himself believe.

“Okay,” he says. Still with half a shrug he can’t quite help.

They stroll back to the apartment, and spend two hours cleaning; only stopping so Timothée can change the record player every time it reaches the end of an LP. Well, a slight white lie: Armie rolls up his sleeves to work on the high windows, and Timothée gets distracted, mouthing at the dry skin on his elbow, licking between the wrinkles and cracks. 

“Weird,” Armie says, incredibly fond.

“You spat my own come into my mouth,” Timothée tells him plainly.

“I did do that,” Armie hums, unashamed. “Get your AC fixed and I’ll come over next week and do it again.”

“It’s my turn to go to yours,” Timothée says, even though it feels presumptuous to say.

“Fine, fine, sure.”

“Is it really fine?” Timothée asks carefully.

Armie smacks him gently up the side of the head. “It’s really fine.” And then he stops, puts down his damp jerry-cloth, and pulls Timothée into an earnest hug, his chin resting in the bird’s nest of Timothée’s hair, finally soft and freshly showered. It’s too hot for it. His body is huge and warm, his chest a furnace.

It’s too hot, and Timothée doesn’t really give a fuck; and holds his boyfriend tight.

Just holds him.


End file.
